Part 4: Dealing With The Past

I was 14 years old when the abuse, at least the sexual abuse, stopped. The last time I remember being abused like that, he was more telling me what he was going to do to me if I didn’t listen to him. At 13 years old, so he could keep doing whatever he wanted, it appears he would give me birth control. It wouldn’t surprise me because once he found out about my periods he started to track mine. My grandfather was also a pharmacist and could have easily provided him with the pill without asking any questions…so long as he got something out of it. It was probably money or something, or some kind of drug. I clearly remember my father giving me a little white pill after I said I had a headache. I told him I knew it wasn’t Advil. He lied and said it was and at the time I stupidly believed him because I didn’t believe myself.

I was up to my limit with him at this point. I wanted so badly for this to be over. So after every night, for a long time, I started to pray. Every time he hurt me I would pray over and over and over, as I said before. I forgot for a long time until I was 17 in Psychology Class. Dr. Hankle is still one of the best teachers I’d ever had. He was funny, he was real, and he honestly cared about his class.

If you’ve ever taken a psychology class, you’ve probably seen the perception pictures. Doctor Hankle had shown us the pictures to see what kind of personality we had. He’d go around and test us in a way. One picture had shown up and it was of a woman, naked, lying passed out in a bed in the background and in the foreground, a man with a disgruntled tie, untucked shirt and an ashamed look on his face. The girl was unconscious it looked like and it also looked like she was in pain. I immediately thought that he had raped her. Doctor Hankle had said to us, though he looked at me, said, “You all know what this is,” his eyes had bend wandering and then rested on me and another classmate. I think he saw that something had really bothered me about this picture. “If you saw something different in this picture, you have problems.” He looked straight at me. I looked down, ashamed. “You should see me if otherwise,” he suggested.

After that, it was different. I didn’t talk to the Doctor but I wanted to. I wish I had of. I knew then that something was wrong. That something had always been wrong: with my dad, the divorce, my anxiety, my touching problems. Especially how I flipped out every time someone mentioned sex or made light of sexual abuse. I could barely sleep at night anymore. It was an extremely confusing time in my life. Until Mom had coffee with my friend, Jan. She helped me remember, and helped me heal. There was one other man, though, he helped heal me probably more. It gets better from here on out.